


Lay Down Your Goddamn Arms

by ladivvinatravestia



Series: Censorship is the Worst Ship [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Family, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Found Family, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Sunburn, Unreliable Narrator, bad decision-making, everyone is poly because witchers, graphic descriptions of food and drink, internalized ableism, old-fashioned gender roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25254370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladivvinatravestia/pseuds/ladivvinatravestia
Summary: Yen is not that good at this ‘looking after Geralt when he’s hurt himself’ thing and she knows it; but she’s trying her best.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Censorship is the Worst Ship [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757662
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Lay Down Your Goddamn Arms

**Author's Note:**

> For Banned Together Bingo 2020 prompt “Physical Agony”. You don’t need to read any of the other fics in this series to understand this one if you don’t want to; but for reasons explored in “No More Water, but Fire Next Time,” Ciri has been calling both Geralt and Jaskier “Dad.”
> 
> Thanks to [Gavilan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gavilan/pseuds/Gavilan) for the beta!

The sun is low in the sky when Geralt steers his borrowed boat back into the rocky harbor at Ruelle, but he can still feel its heat on his back, shoulders, and face. Damn. That’s going to get even more painful overnight. It will probably blister before getting itchy and peeling and looking disgusting. There’s a headache nagging at the base of his skull, probably from drinking one too many doses of Killer Whale.

A couple of local teens wade out to help Geralt tie his boat up, the younger one recoiling and retching when he sees the siren head Geralt has kept as a trophy. The older one calls him a few choice names that question his bravery and manliness, which is apparently cause for the two to start fighting. Geralt rolls his eyes and gestures for them to come help him. To the younger boy, he gives one of the sacks of coins and other family mementoes he retrieved from submerged shipwrecks; into the hands of the older boy he thrusts the siren’s head, still dripping ichorous blood and seawater. Then he picks up the larger satchel of sunken treasure himself, hefts his swords and crossbow over his back, where they scrape painfully against his skin, even through his shirt and jerkin, and follows the two boys back up the steps to the village.

The steps open out onto Ruelle’s main square, where most of the villagers are gathered to take advantage of the late afternoon heat. Some have brought tables and benches; others have merely spread out brightly-patterned carpets. Old, patched sails, now painted in cheery floral patterns, have been stretched out as awnings to provide shade for most of the square’s occupants. Off to one side of the square, several young women in kerchiefs tend big, communal pots of food. Geralt scans the square for his - charges? His companions? No, Ciri is his daughter, and Jaskier would want him to think of the rest of them as his family as well.

Yennefer, veiled and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, and Dara, his ever-present cap jammed far down over his ears, are sitting on one of the rugs with an older village woman and two teenage girls. They appear to be discussing herbs and potions. Jaskier and Ciri, her hair now dyed nut-brown to further disguise her identity, are seated on opposite sides of a table under one of the awnings, each with a villager next to them, each earnestly writing something. A weight Geralt didn’t realize he was carrying lifts from his shoulders. Everyone in his - family - is healthy and uncaptured.

He turns his attention to Ruelle’s ealdorman, Dmitry, sitting at the table next adjacent to Jaskier and Ciri’s with his wife Sofia. He’s a grizzled older man, personally retired from going to sea, with seemingly no more love for excess words than Geralt himself. Sofia, plump with a pleasant smile, seems to do all of the actual work of running the village. Before Geralt can stop him, the boy carrying the siren head goes running right through the centre of the square, and the sudden scent of fear and disgust from the villagers wafts in Geralt’s direction.

Dmitry frowns at the boy and jabs his finger in the direction of one of the houses. Geralt hears him mutter, “sorry, sir,” before running off. He nudges the other boy, who starts across the square, with Geralt following him. The boy hefts his bag of treasure up onto the table with a _thunk_ and Geralt sets his own satchel beside it more quietly.

“These all the family mementoes you found?” asks Dmitry.

“Hmm,” agrees Geralt.

“Well, we knew you would come through for us,” says Sofia, coming around the table with a cheery smile. She goes up on tiptoe to pull Geralt into a hug, and everywhere that her hands touch his arms through his sleeves is like being scraped against razor blades. Damn, the burn is even worse than he thought. He keeps his expression as pleasant as he can, though, because Sofia is now patting him on the cheek and telling him that there’s a bath waiting for him in the guest house and by the time he’s done, dinner should be ready to eat.

Jaskier looks up at him as Geralt crosses the back of the square to the guest house they’re being put up in, but Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier nods and goes back to his writing. He _has_ come to enjoy having Jaskier help him with his wounds, his aches and pains, his hair - it’s as good, in its own way, as meditating, for unwinding after a day of drinking potions and hunting - but Jaskier is busy helping the villagers write letters, and that’s more important than his giving Geralt a hand in the bath.

In the guest house, Geralt strips out of his armor, ignoring how hot and tight his skin feels when he moves, and dunks himself cursorily in the tub. Unlike many baths he’s had in his long career, it’s big and deep enough for him to stretch out comfortably in, but he’s feeling a little too overheated to truly appreciate the sensation of a nice long soak just now. He dunks his head under the water, scrubbing at his hair just long enough to get the pieces of seaweed out, and then stands up.

His head throbs. Alright, that much rapid motion was a bad idea. He can take it easy for the rest of the evening. Taking care not to move his head too quickly, he pulls on a fresh shirt and a pair of hose and heads back down to the square.

All of the activities of the day have been cleared away, and the tables have been covered with crisp white linens. Some of the villagers stand off to the side clapping and singing a rowdy song about the gifts of the sea, while others lift dripping lobster-traps out of the cooking pots and carry them over to the tables. Geralt goes to stand with Yennefer, who surveys him coolly from behind her veil. Dara hangs back, but Ciri and Jaskier have joined in the singing and clapping.

The lobster traps are opened over the tables to disgorge turnips, parsnips, onions, sausage, and a wide variety of seafood - crabs, lobsters, mussels, some things Geralt isn’t sure he recognizes. His stomach rumbles - he didn't’ take anything to eat on his boating expedition, as most of his potions don’t really mix well with food.

Yen is now frowning at him.

“I have something on my face?” he asks her.

She sticks a well-manicured forefinger into the middle of his collarbone, and it might as well be a hot poker. Her frown deepens.

“What?”

“You didn’t use zinc oxide?” she asks.

He’s heard of it, of course, knows it stops sun burns in humans, but, “No, why would I? I’ll only heal -”

Yen scoffs and walks away, her skirts and veil rustling behind her, and he’s left speaking her name to an empty space. He hears Jaskier asking her what happened, to which she replies contemptuously, “ _Your husband -_ ”

Everyone lines up in an orderly fashion to partake of the feast laid forth on the tables, supplemented with dumplings in a rich broth in one of the other pots. Geralt tries to take his place at the back of the line, but several villagers, Sofia chief among them, urge him to the front. She makes an effusive speech thanking him for killing the nest of sirens that had been preventing Ruelle’s fishermen from plying their usual trade, and for retrieving all of the mementos of ancestors and loved ones lost to the sea; he ducks his head and hunches his shoulders, unused to the praise and unsure of how to respond to it.

He keeps his shoulders hunched during dinner, but for almost everyone else, it’s a cheery, rowdy affair. Geralt concentrates on putting away as much of the food - well-spiced with some kind of strong spice mix - and drinking as much small beer as he can manage, leaving the rest of his - _family_ \- to do the socializing for him. His head is starting to pound again and, with it, his ability to stomach any food - or any further noise or bright light - is decreasing.

Jaskier, of course, is a natural at engaging with and charming people, whether they’re villagers or courtiers - and whether they intended to be charmed or not. Ciri isn’t quite as practiced at it, but she seems game to give it her best try. Dara grows more stiff and withdrawn the more that the other village teens try to flirt with him or draw him into their games, and Yen remains her usual unknowable self. She’s pushed her veil back so she can eat, which only means that Geralt can more clearly see her eyeing him critically from across the table.

“What,” he growls.

“I’ll mix you up some milk of poppy, but you’re on your own as far as a soothing salve is concerned,” she says. “Unless you can get your darling husband to help you. I don’t - dirty my hands like that.” She makes a motion with her hands that suggests she finds the texture of most salves as off-putting as he does.

“No poppy milk,” Geralt grumbles, and declines to address the continued joke that Jaskier is his husband. This far north, same-sex relationships aren’t viewed with quite the same equanimity as in Verden, where the joke had been born.

“Willow bark tea, then,” says Yen, glaring at him. He’s seen that look in her eyes before; it’s a look best not replied to with “no.”

“Hmm,” he agrees reluctantly, and drinks more small beer.

Now that he knows that Yen is watching him, Geralt is determined _not_ to show any further signs of weakness. The food and small beer have, paradoxically, settled his stomach some, but his head is still pounding, and all the skin on his back, chest, and face is starting to feel tight and hot. Still, he can tough out the rest of the evening.

At some point, the feasting is cleared towards the edges of the square, making way for the centre to become a dance floor. Jaskier lays a hand on Geralt’s arm and flashes him a smile as he steps forward to perform. The village band also boasts a fiddle, a set of small pipes, and a drum, all of which are much louder than Jaskier’s lute, but he still has his comprehensive repertoire of songs. Geralt had thought Jaskier knew only suggestive or downright filthy songs, but it turns out he has any number of songs appropriate for an audience of all ages, and soon all of the children and many of the adults are singing along with the limb on the branch on the branch on the tree and the tree in the hole and - Geralt takes another sip of his beer. This would normally be the part of the evening when he would unobtrusively slip off to their rooms to lie down in the dark with a cool cloth over his eyes.

Dara is hanging back, but Ciri seems to have gathered a group of young admirers of all genders and they coax her into the next dance, some kind of affair where one circle moves clockwise while another circle, inside it, moves counterclockwise. Geralt casts a glance over at Yen, sitting beside him, but she shows no sign of going anywhere. Partway through the dance, Jaskier slides onto the bench on Geralt’s other side, looking flushed and happy and carrying three full mugs of proper ale.

He sets two down in front of Yen and Geralt, then takes a long draught of his own before leaning heavily against Geralt. It’s possibly the only form of public affection they can show each other here, so Geralt leans back.

“Alright?” asks Jaskier.

Geralt turns to look at him. Their faces are very close. Jaskier smiles even more broadly at him, despite not smelling nearly as drunk as he’s acting, and pushes the tip of his index finger against Geralt’s nose. It’s a liberty Geralt really ought not to tolerate, but has long since become resigned to. He can feel the skin on his nose cracking and peeling, but - more importantly - he catches the motion out of the corner of his eye as Yen swipes his mug of ale, and he whips around to try to catch her.

“Oi,” he says.

Jaskier leans forward so he can glare at Yen from around Geralt’s shoulder. “Yennefer, dearest,” he begins.

Geralt isn’t exactly sure what Jaskier and Yen got up to together after he so self-destructively snapped at them on the dragon hunt. It’s unclear to him whether they actually get along any better than they did before, but they’ve now taken to calling each other sickly-sweet pet names like they are either court rivals or court lovers.

“Geralt got too much sun today,” says Yen, putting her hand over the top of the mug meant for Geralt.

“Yes, I did think you were looking a bit - pink,” Jaskier tells Geralt helpfully.

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles. He’s perfectly happy to submit to Jaskier’s pampering when it’s just the two of them, but it somehow seems like a weakness letting Yen see that he’s not always indestructible.

Out on the dance floor, the circle dance has broken up in favour of something involving a long line of couples.

“Ohh, _Thorns in the Garden_ , _such_ a good dance,” says Jaskier, standing up abruptly. If Geralt and Yen weren’t still sitting on the bench, he would probably have upset it. “Yen, darling, would you give me the honour of this dance?”

He crosses rapidly to Yen’s side of the bench and makes her an elaborate courtly bow. She looks at him with the same level of distaste she’d shown yesterday for the endrega larvae they’d stumbled across.

“No.”

He straightens and puts a hand over his breast. “Yennefer. Thorn of my _own heart_.”

Her nostrils flare and she pulls off her veil and sun hat, leaving them on the bench. “Fine.”

She puts her hand in his and he leads her off to join the dance, flashing a victorious smile at Geralt. He shakes his head, knowing he didn’t understand what just happened between them, and reaches for his confiscated ale.

As the dance gets under way, it becomes evident to Geralt that not only does it involve a new couple moving to the front of the line with each repetition of the pattern, but that also, each time a couple separates during the pattern, there is an opportunity for extra dancers to step in and displace people’s originally-chosen partners, usually to much confusion and hilarity.

When one of the young unmarried women steps into Yennefer’s place to dance with Jaskier, he brings her hand to his lips before they part for the next figure and she blushes, but Yen takes it with poorly-concealed disdain and strolls back to lean against the table Geralt is still sat at, her arms crossed. When Jaskier himself is replaced, one repeat later, by one of the younger fishermen, he shrugs cheerfully and goes to immediately displace the gangly youth who’s been dancing with Ciri. It’s hard to pick their voices out of everyone else’s at this distance, but from the way she rolls her eyes at him, she’s probably chastising him for embarrassing her.

Then a different young woman - this one seemingly a new bride - flashes a challenging look at the man by her side and steps into the dance, neatly stealing Jaskier from Ciri and leaving Ciri standing, frowning, in the middle of the dance floor.

Geralt is not normally given to dancing. But the pattern looks very easy, and there’s a special kind of perverse pleasure in making a show of doing something Yen disdains to do and clearly thinks Geralt shouldn’t be doing, either. He rises smoothly from the bench and crosses the dance floor to take Ciri’s hand, and is rewarded when she squeezes his hand and smiles brilliantly up at him.

He doesn’t exactly realize that the nausea has caught up with him again until the dance ends and the entire world seems to slip sideways on him for a moment as he’s making his ending bow to Ciri. She doesn’t notice - or, if she does, she’s good at hiding it. After the ending bows are over, she rushes forward to hug his arm.

“Dad, I didn’t know you could dance,” she says brightly.

“I try not to let on,” he tells her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the pounding behind his eyes.

She continues to cling to his arm as they walk back towards their table, and then she says, “This kind of dancing is much more fun than -”

Damn. This is the part Geralt isn’t any good at. Did she stop because she realized she was about to give away her identity? Or because she’s troubled by the memories of her last few hours in Cintra, and the deaths of the only family she’d previously known?

“Come on, we’ll get you some more ale,” Geralt tells her. He knows enough of the world now to know that some parents probably have better ways of helping their children through difficult times, but not enough to know what those might be.

“Great,” says Ciri, and pretends she’s not sniffling a bit.

Geralt’s stomach and nose try to revolt when he goes to pour himself another ale, though, so he settles for small beer before escorting Ciri back to the table. Jaskier is still out on the dance floor. Yen has her arms crossed and is watching Geralt and Ciri with narrowed eyes.

“Girls in Cintra drink at ten,” Ciri tells her, curling her hands protectively around her tankard.

Yen makes a dismissive noise. “Alright, just don’t over-indulge. I’m leaving you in charge of your other Dad; he’s well into his cups. Geralt, come on.”

She grabs Geralt by the bicep and steers him forcefully in the direction of the guest house. Despite the pounding in his head and the heat in his skin, he feels a curl of desire low in his gut. Since the fall of Cintra and the battle of Sodden, there’s barely been any time to have private conversations with either of his lovers, let alone time to be intimate with either of them.

“Gross,” Ciri comments as they retreat.

“She told me she’d _had_ ale before,” he grumbles to Yen.

Yen snorts. “Then she can learn her lesson the hard way like I did when I broke into my stepfather’s still when I was thirteen.”

Geralt snorts too, or tries to, but the sudden head movement makes his bile rise and spots dance around the edges of his vision.

Inside the guest house, Yen releases Geralt’s bicep, pushing him forcefully toward the bed.

“Shirt and boots off, face down on the bed,” she orders.

Well, this is starting to sound pretty interesting. Maybe if whatever Yen has planned doesn’t require him to move his head too much - he pulls his shirt off over his head and suppresses a hiss of pain when it seemingly pulls half of the skin from his shoulders and back with it.

“Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?” he jokes, and lies down on the bed like he was told.

“Geralt, we’re not fucking,” says Yen impatiently. “I’m putting salve on your sunburn.

“I don’t need it,” he says into the pillow. “I’ll be healed by tomorrow.” It’s blessedly cool against his face, although it doesn’t go quite as far toward relieving the headache and nausea as he would like.

“Well, _I_ need it,” says Yen, and uncorks something that smells like apple cider vinegar. “I don’t want to wake up and find your disgusting skin flakes all over my person because you’re too tough to wear a little bit of zinc oxide when you’re out in the sun all day.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles. He feels the mattress dip as Yen sits beside him.

“Unless you’d like some willow bark tea first,” she suggests.

He did, at least, agree to that. He holds up one hand beside his head, ready to take hold of his drink. Yen snorts. He feels her doing something with magic, and a few moments later she’s placing a mug of tea, just the right temperature to drink, in his hand. When he rolls over onto his side to drink it, he leaves behind more flaking skin on the coverlet. It itches more than it hurts.

Yen turns away, shuddering theatrically. “Revolting,” she says.

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, raising his eyebrows over the brim of his mug.

“Honestly, what would you be doing if I wasn’t here to make you look after yourself, just going around shedding?”

“Jaskier -” begins Geralt, before realizing that might not be such a good idea. Still, it’s enough for Yen to go on.

“Oh, I see,” she says, eyes narrowed, “You’ll let _him_ take care of you, but not me?”

He needs to tread carefully - she’d been annoyed the last time he implied she’d be a poor caretaker, and now despite their dangerous and itinerant lifestyle they’re parents anyway. She’s actually doing a good job with Ciri and Dara - better than he is, probably. And it’s not even about her, not really - it’s about Jaskier, and how he’s known him for the entirety of Jaskier’s adult life.

“Well, he _is_ my husband,” he jokes.

“Fuck’s sake,” says Yen, and rolls her eyes, but he thinks she’s doing it to hide a smile. “Well, don’t expect me to have anything like his bedside manner. And I’m sure as fuck not rubbing your feet. Finish that up.”

She stands up and shrugs out of her gown, tossing it over the bench next to the dressing table. Geralt downs the rest of his tea and very determinedly does _not_ ask how Yen knows that Jaskier is so good at foot rubs. He settles back into the sheets and she does something to them that cools them enough to alleviate his pain. Then she gets to work swabbing his burns with the vinegar, and, contrary to his every expectation, it doesn’t sting. It’s actually quite soothing, although it still smells terrible.

Unlike Jaskier, Yen doesn’t seem to care to talk while she’s tending his wounds. He can’t quite slip into meditation, not when his blood is still singing in his ears, but it _is_ relaxing to have retreated away from all the noise and rapid flashes of motion and colour of the villagers. He’s still trying to puzzle through why she’s _actually_ doing this when she says,

“It wasn’t split ends.”

“No, Jaskier cuts them off every month,” he says into the pillow.

She’s silent for a minute and he realizes that wasn’t anything like what she was expecting him to say. Then she runs a hand through his hair, which makes him shiver involuntarily in pleasure, even though he can tell his hair is hopelessly tangled and dry.

She clicks her tongue critically and says, “Well, he’s going to have to do it again. Really, Geralt, did you take care of yourself at all before you met him?”

“No,” Geralt tells the pillow. It’s much easier than telling her face to face.

“Oh, good, I see you’ve decided to join me in honesty hour,” she says. She pulls her hand out of his hair and shifts her weight on the bed. He turns his head to the side and cracks one eye open to see her sitting with her legs curled up underneath her - an informal pose that makes her look much younger and more vulnerable. She reaches for his hand.

“When we met, in Rinde, you asked if I had split ends before I graduated Aretuza.”

Geralt snorts. “I’m an ass,” he says.

Yen smiles, a real smile that reaches her eyes. “Yes, you are,” she says, using their joined hands to punch the mattress in punctuation of each word.

“But I didn’t, or, I didn’t _just_ have split ends, although I admit my hair was a disaster. I had complex curvature of the spine, and it hurt like _fuck_ , all the fucking time.”

Geralt hadn’t realized that at all, and he opens his mouth to try to say something about it, even though he has no idea what to say, but Yen hushes him. “For the longest time, I thought that since I _could_ push through the pain all the time, there was no reason for me to take anything for it. But then I realized how much energy I was spending on pushing through the pain, and how if I took something for the pain, I could use that energy for more productive things, or at least more fun things.”

There’s probably supposed to be a life lesson for Geralt in this, but now he finds himself wondering what kinds of mischief young sorceresses get into, and whether it’s anything like the mischief witcher trainees get into. “Like what?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Yen counters. “Anyway, let’s say that _you_ had worn some zinc oxide today, instead of just assuming you’d heal later. Maybe you would have had energy to do some other things instead.”

“Like clearing out a few more drowner nests,” Geralt says, thinking of the stretch of coastline away to the north that he’d had to leave because his energy and potion store were running low.

“Mhm,” says Yen. It sounds like that’s not exactly what she was thinking of.

“Or fucking,” he tries. After all, that’s what he thought - or hoped - was going to happen this evening.

“Mhm,” she says again. “Or showing your daughter a good time on the dance floor.”

“Hmm,” he agrees. He still doesn’t think it’s worth doing anything extra just to avoid some injury he will only heal from later, but if he’s doing something that will leave him in a condition to still protect people, or to still be of use to his family - that’s worth it.

“Anyway, how’s your skin feeling?”

Geralt rolls his shoulders. There are still a few spots that feel itchy and over-warm.

“Okay, another application of vinegar, then,” says Yen.

“Jaskier uses camomile,” Geralt says into the pillow.

“Oh, does he,” says Yen, and presses her moistened cloth much more savagely into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder than strictly necessary. She’s finished swabbing the burns and lying in her shift beside him when he hears footsteps coming up the path toward the guest house. Jaskier’s gait, he would recognize anywhere. The other two lighter sets of footsteps must belong to Ciri and Dara.

“What if they’re not finished, though?” Ciri is asking.

“Then I’ll knock on the door and give them a couple minutes to sort themselves out,” Jaskier says.

“It doesn’t take _that_ long,” mutters Dara.

Geralt suspected Jaskier was smiling before, but he’s sure he can hear the smile in his voice now. “It - can,” he says, “it depends on what you and your partner - or partners - are doing.”

“Gross,” says Ciri.

“Geralt, are you even listening to me?” asks Yen, and he realizes that she’s been asking him a question, too.

“Better hide,” he says, “my husband is coming home with the kids.”

Yen makes a noise of disgust and swats at him with her pillow.

“Knock, knock,” says Jaskier outside the guest house, and follows up his announcement with an actual knock on the door.

“Yes, hold on, just let me finish sneaking out the window, first,” Yen calls back, making no attempt to move.

“Alright, darling,” says Jaskier, and swings the door open. He steps inside with Ciri and Dara, takes a deep breath, and says, “Goddess, what is that _smell_?”

“If you say _one word_ about camomile,” Yen says, lifting her hand to point a threatening finger at him.

Jaskier walks toward the low sideboard, where Yen has left the remains of the vial of vinegar. “I see you chose the smelliest possible remedy,” he comments.

Ciri and Dara are looking at each other, expressions of doubt and disbelief on their faces. “We thought you were -” begins Ciri. Dara elbows her, looking censorious, and she starts giggling instead.

“Children,” says Yen, still without getting up from the bed, “it is _past your bedtime_.”

“Aw, but _Mom_ ,” Ciri complains theatrically, but she turns her back to start unbuttoning her jacket. Jaskier comes around to the opposite side of the big bed and sits down on it to kick off his boots. Dara, now that they are finally in the privacy of the guest house, pulls off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair. Geralt takes a moment to look around at all of them before settling back into his pillow, his headache finally starting to subside. He hadn’t wanted a family; hadn’t ever intended to acquire a family. But now that he has one, unusual and troublesome though they might be, he wouldn’t want to trade them for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ladivvinatravestia)!


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